In West Ukraine, a blue crane
lifts the barley from the guts of the city.
In this accident of geography,
she found the only puddle on the ground
and made one hell of a splash.
Blonde and pleated, tall and static,
a well trod speakers’ corner, she stood.
Her hometown, a Bureau de Change
above a laundry room.
She could not have the patience of the flower seller.
She did not believe in the sound of the sea.
The hurricane from the away end
blew crosses from the hilltops into her psychology,
blew ticks from the reservoir to fuel her residency.
Statuesque, she daily flung her concrete words, ballistic,
against the amassed and fascistic.
To mark the tenth anniversary of her death,
football scarves were laid.
A small boy, all neat and auburn,
offered his historiography:
Fuck your vile corrupt iconography
Spat and turned into the café, he burst
already old enough to drink 5 star Hararava,
lit up his cigarette and eyeballed
the old patriots in the corner,
who ran off handing their beer money
to the beggar woman in the street.
He bowed toward her stomping ground
and sniped:
Never admit defeat!
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